The Inspection
"Annual apartment inspection. He forgot to hide his browsing history—or close the tab. She finds exactly what he's been searching for. Women who look exactly like her."
"Annual inspection, Mr. Reeves. You got my notice?"
Mrs. Carver is standing in my doorway with a clipboard, reading glasses perched on her nose. She's all business—fifty-seven years old, owner of this building, widow for the past decade.
She's also the reason I've been up late every night for the past six months.
"Right. The inspection. Come in."
I step aside and try to remember what state I left the apartment in. Clean, I think. Dishes done. Bed made.
Laptop closed.
Fuck.
She moves through the apartment with practiced efficiency.
"Smoke detectors. Good. Water pressure. Fine. No signs of pests."
I follow her, trying not to stare. It's hard—she's wearing a cardigan that does nothing to hide her figure. Mrs. Carver is a big woman. Has been since I moved in. Wide hips, massive breasts, a belly that rounds out soft and proud. She's probably three hundred pounds, and she carries it like armor.
She carries it like the women in my browser history.
"Kitchen looks fine. Let's check the bedroom."
Shit.
The laptop is on my desk. Open. Waking up from sleep mode the moment we walk in.
I see her eyes go to it. See her expression shift. See her walk toward it while I stand frozen in the doorway.
"Mr. Reeves."
"Mrs. Carver, I can explain—"
"BBW landlady fantasy." She reads the search bar aloud. "BBW mature older woman." She scrolls. "Big landlady takes tenant."
The room is very, very silent.
She turns to face me. I can't read her expression—anger, maybe, or disgust, or—
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been looking at this?"
"I—" My face is on fire. "Six months. Since I moved in."
"Since you met me."
It's not a question.
"Yes."
She sets down the clipboard. Takes off her reading glasses. Folds them carefully and puts them in her cardigan pocket.
"And you never said anything."
"You're my landlady. It would be—"
"Inappropriate? Unprofessional?" She takes a step toward me. "How is jerking off to women who look like me any more appropriate?"
"It's not. I know. I'm sorry—"
"Stop apologizing." She takes another step. We're close now. Too close. "I want to know something."
"What?"
"When you searched for those videos. When you watched them. Touched yourself." Her voice drops. "Did you imagine it was me?"
The truth comes out before I can stop it.
"Yes."
She doesn't flinch.
"Every time?"
"Every single time." I'm past the point of lying. "I pictured your face. Your body. I imagined knocking on your door at midnight. Imagined you inviting me in. Imagined—"
"Show me."
"What?"
"Show me what you imagined." She reaches for her cardigan buttons. "I'm sixty-seven. I haven't been touched in ten years. And for six months, you've been fantasizing about me while I sleep alone one floor below."
"Mrs. Carver—"
"Grace." She undoes the top button. "If we're going to do this, you can call me Grace."
"Grace." The name feels strange in my mouth. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure I'm tired of being alone. I'm sure I've noticed you watching me since you moved in. And I'm sure—" She undoes another button. "I'm sure I've been wondering what you'd do if you ever had the chance."
She lets the cardigan fall.
Her blouse follows.
Her bra.
And suddenly she's standing in my bedroom, topless, and she's everything I imagined and more.
I close the distance between us.
My hands find her breasts—massive, heavy, nipples hardening under my palms. She sighs, her head falling back.
"Yes. Touch me. Please—"
I touch her everywhere. Her breasts. Her belly. The soft rolls of her sides. I kiss her neck, her shoulder, the tops of her breasts.
"The bed," she gasps. "I want—I need—"
I guide her to the bed. Lay her down. Strip off her remaining clothes and then my own.
She looks at my cock and her eyes go wide.
"Oh my. That's—"
"For you." I climb between her thick thighs. "All for you."
I bury my face between her legs.
She comes in under a minute.
Ten years of nothing, and my tongue undoes her in seconds. She screams, grabs my head, and I lick her through it—through the first orgasm and into the second.
"Please—inside me—now—"
I rise up. Push into her.
She's tight and wet and burning hot. Her body surrounds me—all three hundred pounds of soft, welcoming flesh. I start to move, and she moans like she's dying.
"God—yes—this is what I needed—"
"Tell me."
"I needed a young man to want me. To look at me and see something worth having." She pulls me closer. "I needed you."
I fuck her like I've imagined every night for six months. She comes three more times, screaming, shaking, her cunt milking me until I can't hold back.
"Inside me," she gasps. "Fill me up."
I fill her up.
Afterward, we lie in my bed. The laptop still glows on the desk.
"You can delete your history now," she says.
"Why?"
"Because you don't need videos anymore." She rolls onto her side. Looks at me with clear eyes. "You have the real thing."
"Is this... is this going to be a thing?"
"That depends." She traces a finger down my chest. "Do you want it to be?"
I pull her on top of me. Feel her weight settle onto my hips.
"I've wanted this since I moved in."
"Then let's make up for lost time."
She sinks down onto me, and I groan.
The inspection report is spotless.
No mention of what we did. No mention of the browser history. Just "Unit 3B: Satisfactory."
But she adds a note at the bottom, just for me:
Same time next week. For a follow-up inspection.
I pass every inspection from then on.
With flying colors.